


Nightfall

by pennedbymazoji



Series: Nightfall [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, F/M, Good Hannibal Lecter, Grooming, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Murder, Murder Kink, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 09:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21508543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennedbymazoji/pseuds/pennedbymazoji
Summary: Hannibal coaches you to kill your abuser, and indulges in your daddy kink while you're at it.Trigger Warnings: sexual abuse, sexual assault, implied child grooming, the obvious murder and cannibalismI don't expect this to do very well, as this is very specific and mostly just me working through my own personal trauma through fanfic. I will work on a more widely-applicable story soon.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter & Reader, Hannibal Lecter/Reader, Hannibal Lecter/You
Series: Nightfall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796068
Comments: 4
Kudos: 236





	1. Chapter 1

The Baltimore chill nipped at you like an unfamiliar dog as you shoved your gloved hands further into your pockets. Your frequent moves around the country never gave you enough time to get used to the weather, so the hot and the cold felt equally unpleasant. When you turned the corner onto Bayshore Avenue, the sight of your new psychiatrist’s beige building brought you some relief. You would be out of the cold soon. 

You desperately tried to remove most of the snow from your boots by kicking the steps as you ascended, but you had minimal luck. You took one more deep breath in, staring at the doorway. If everything went okay, you wouldn’t _have_ to move again. You could stay in Baltimore and be free of the monster lurking just behind your shoulder that set fire to any comfort you found in your previous homes. You shook your head to break your reverie and headed inside, following the signs for Doctor Lecter’s waiting room. You took a cursory glance at your watch. _5:57 pm._ Thankfully, you were a few minutes early. It would have been unspeakably rude to show up late to your first appointment.

The door to Doctor Lecter’s office swung open at exactly six o’clock, and you immediately felt underdressed and overwhelmed. He was _hot._ He seemed to be immaculately groomed and was dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit that fit him perfectly. You fiddled with the hem of your plain red dress as you stood to greet him. 

“Hello, Doctor Lecter,” you managed to say, holding your hand out. 

“Hello.” He shook your hand with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He withdrew quickly and gestured into his office. “Please, come in.”

His office did nothing to quell your nerves. It was beautiful as well, the deep red walls lined with art, sculptures, and more books than you had read in your lifetime. Hannibal pointed towards two black chairs that were placed in the center of the room, and you quickly took the seat opposite him. He regarded you with a calculating glance for a few more seconds before reaching over to retrieve a leather-bound notebook from the table next to his chair.

“My apologies, but initial appointments require going over your medical history and current symptoms before we can begin our therapy. I hope you will not mind me asking you a few personal questions.”

“Not at all,” you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. You weren’t sure exactly _how_ personal he was going to get.

“I was able to retrieve basic information about your medical history through the waiver you so graciously signed that allowed me to access your primary doctor’s records, so this should be relatively quick. Is there a history of mental illness in your family?” He seemed to be reading from a memorized script, his eyes never leaving you to glance down at his notebook. You redirected your eyes to the floor and nodded.

“Yes,” you confirmed. “Depression, anxiety, and possible borderline personality disorder on my mother’s side.” You could hear Hannibal’s pen scribbling away in his notebook, but you didn’t dare look back up at him. You instead devoted your time to memorizing the pattern of his floorboards.

“Do you experience any forms of psychosis? Hearing or seeing things that others cannot see or hear?”

“No.”

“Do you have any thoughts about harming yourself?”

You paused for a second.

“No.”

“Do you have any thoughts about harming others?” You drew in a shaky breath and gritted your teeth as you looked back up at Hannibal. He regarded you calmly, but he didn’t wait for you to speak. Your reaction had been enough. “We will need to come back to that. It could be grounds for hospitalization.”

The rest of his generic questionnaire went blissfully quick. He reviewed your current symptoms, your current and past medications, your frustrations with your medication’s side effects of weight gain and the loss of your libido. Hannibal marked everything down thoughtfully in his notebook, nodding at your answers before moving on. 

“Finally, we are finished with the formalities.” He shut his notebook and placed it on the table beside him. Your eyes locked with his maroon ones, as they finally showed a spark of interest. “You did hesitate when I asked if you had any thoughts of harming others. I will need you to elaborate.”

“There is… a man,” you acknowledged through your gritted teeth. This is why you were here. You interlocked your fingers and placed your hands in your lap, the shakiness of your hands in stark contrast to the calm of the office around you. “He is not solely responsible for why I am the way that I am, but he is responsible for a significant portion of it. He groomed me as a child and sexually assaulted me when I turned 18. Every day since I realized what he has done to me was wrong, I’ve lived in fear of him. In fear of him finding me, in fear of him trying to hurt me again, in fear of even seeing him again. I’ve moved around so often due to this terror. I often think…” the red walls began to feel suffocating as you imagined them soaked in not red paint, but in blood. “I often think about killing him. If he was dead by my hands, I’d finally feel safe.” Something glinted in Hannibal’s eyes.

“I would classify that as a normal response to trauma.” He abruptly stood up, and you followed suit. “We will discuss this further in your next session.”

Your weekly sessions continued as normally as you could expect. Hannibal would ask you about your specific traumas and your reactions, and provide better ways of managing those reactions and your thought patterns. He had a keen interest in your tendency to hop around the country. He was invested in you making Baltimore your permanent home. At first glance, he was a normal psychiatrist, but his words always seemed to have a double meaning. Discussions of how important it was for you to feel safe would always have a hint of _at any cost_ hidden under the tedious recommendations of self-defense classes and establishing control of your surroundings.

The weeks creeped into months, until the heatwave of summer hit Baltimore. Your clothes became more revealing as the temperatures increased, your mind not able to turn down the invitation to at least imagine that he was looking at you. His attractiveness had remained a constant distraction during your sessions. 

With the heat came a looming promise that kept you on edge. Hannibal’s coaxing to inform him as to your sudden change remained unsuccessful until the week before for commitment. 

“I won’t be in next week,” you said as you fiddled with the rings on your hands. “I promised my family that I would visit.” Hannibal raised an eyebrow as he shrugged off his light grey jacket. The benefit of being his first appointment was this semi-undressing that you got to witness, the removal of his jacket and the rolling up of his sleeves.

“Is that the source of your anxiety you have been so adamantly keeping from me?” Hannibal strode over to one the dark wooden cabinets along the walls, and you forced yourself to keep your eyes forward instead of following him. You tried to imagine his eyes taking in the way your black skirt clung to your legs, elongated by the heels you hated but still wore to your appointments with him. The clinking of glasses reminded you that you should respond. 

“Yes,” you sighed, leaning back and trying to relax into the chair. “Going home will be… difficult for me. I should only be gone a week, but I’ll be revisiting where everything happened. He... “ You paused. “He might even be there.”

“You never disclosed your relation to your abuser,” Hannibal appeared at your side and offered you a glass of white wine. You shot him a confused glance as you accepted the drink. “It’s never too early for good wine,” he elaborated. “You seem stressed, the alcohol should help you relax.” You cautiously took a sip as he sat down opposite you.

“He was my mother’s ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure if they are back together or not… They have a habit of breaking up and him coming back.” You nearly drained your wine glass in one large gulp in a desperate attempt to calm your nerves. “My mother doesn’t talk much about it. I don’t ask.”

“If you did see him, what would you do?” Hannibal grabbed the wine bottle from the table next to him and gestured for you to hold out your glass. He filled your glass nearly to the top before he continued. “Do you think you would confront him? Would you run?”

“I don’t know,” you confessed. “I feel as though I would need to defend myself. I have dreams still… dreams about killing him if I see him. Just for the sense of safety I hope that it would give me.”

“Safety is important.”

“I know, but would it really make me feel safe?” You shifted uncomfortably in your chair. “I don’t know. I just feel at a loss for how to get rid of the feeling that he’s going to show up and hurt me. I don’t know how to get rid of the guilt…”

“What he did wasn’t your fault,” Hannibal simply stated. “You didn’t consent to what happened. It doesn’t matter the extent of what happened, or what you were wearing, or your reaction- It’s not your fault that you froze.”

“I know it’s not my fault,” you breathed. “But I did freeze. And the fact that I froze, combined with…” You trailed off and shook your head.

“Please elaborate,” Hannibal pressed. You shook your head again, directing your eyes at the books above him rather than his face. “You know that I cannot help you with what you will not tell me."

“Fine,” you broke, feeling tears forming at the sides of your eyes. “I froze and I didn’t tell him to stop. And ever since then, maybe even before, I can’t remember, I’ve been weirdly into…” You fidgeted again, in disbelief that you were about to disclose this not only to your psychiatrist, but your hot psychiatrist. You wiped the tears away. “I have a daddy thing, okay? It’s hard not to believe that in some way I must have wanted it, that I must have been okay with it, because I froze and I’m into that sort of thing.”

“The difference between what happened to you and having a perfectly normal kink,” Hannibal began as you shivered at the word _kink_ rolling off his tongue, “is that you didn’t consent. All sexual activity requires enthusiastic consent, which you did not give. Your sexual preferences in no way excuse what happened to you. Do you repress your fantasies?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you not allow yourself to indulge in your kink due to your shame?” Hannibal elaborated, as calm as ever. “Accepting your desires may help you combat the guilt.”

“I’m not exactly the hottest thing on the market, Dr. Lecter,” you joked, hoping he would change the subject. Your cheeks were so hot you worried they would melt the foundation off your face.

“I doubt that.” He did not elaborate on that statement further. “If you see this man, do you feel as though you are adequately prepared to make yourself safe? Have you been regularly attending your self-defense classes?”

“Regularly?” You scoffed, brushing your hair out of your face. “I attend almost every day.”

“Do you feel as though you could overpower him?”

“It wouldn’t be that hard. He isn’t in the best shape. I could outrun him.”

“Running may not be necessary,” Hannibal finished his wine, setting the empty glass on the table next to him. “Do you feel as though you can make yourself feel safe? Through self defense, the grounding techniques we discussed?” Something different flickered across his face, and you saw a fire light behind his eyes. “I should rephrase. Do you feel as though you can keep yourself safe at all costs?” You felt a flush of something like a mix of attraction and rage come over you.

“At all costs. By any means necessary.”


	2. Chapter 2

You packed your bags in silence the next day, overcome with thought. You couldn’t even be sure that you would run into him, but didn’t Hannibal say that you needed to feel safe at all costs? You fiddled with the pocket knife you had bought at the request of your self-defense teacher before throwing it in your suitcase and covering it with your clothes.

The drive was surprisingly pleasant. You felt a strange sense of peace, happily sipping your coffee as the miles between you and your abuser closed. A few times you had spotted a suspicious BMW following close behind you, but the sight of it didn’t bother you. It carried another strange wave of comfort with it. 

Your family was surprisingly pleasant at your arrival. They were relieved that you seemed to have settled in Baltimore for the moment, not springing another surprise move across the country on them. Even your mother was nicer than normal, explaining that she had not seen _him_ since their last breakup. You felt relieved that your relationship with your family could perhaps progress normally. 

“That man over there keeps looking at you,” your mother pointed out when you went to dinner. You looked over your shoulder but you could only see a man in a red sweater, his face obscured by the menu. The dark lighting of the restaurant made it difficult to discern any other features. You shrugged as you spun back around.

“Let him look.” You took another sip of your drink, relishing the way the alcohol burned down your throat. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Your therapy really is helping.”

You bid your family farewell quite early in the night, eager to head back to your hotel room for a reason unknown to your conscious mind. As soon as you entered, it was almost as if you were on autopilot. You meticulously pulled on the all-black outfit you had made sure to bring with you, slipping the knife into the pocket of your jacket. Your hair was pulled into a high ponytail before you regarded yourself calmly in the mirror. At all costs, you had told Hannibal, and by any means necessary.

The Uber ride was uneventful. Heading directly to your destination would have been suspicious, so you settled for a nearby bar. The silver BMW you had grown accustomed to seeing was parked outside, its doors and tinted windows gleaming in the moonlight.

It had been all too easy. He opened the door, shocked to see you but with a certain sense of smugness in his smile. You hadn’t waited to be invited in. You pushed your way inside and only hesitated long enough for him to close the door. You punched him squarely in the face, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the sight of blood pouring from his nose. He’d backed himself into the linoleum kitchen without any coaxing from you, just the look of determination on your face and the lack of hesitance in your steps towards him. Your movements were surprisingly fluid as you brandished the knife and brought it across his neck, severing his main arteries and finally understanding the meaning of smiling from ear to ear. He choked and sputtered as you knelt next to him, dragging the knife down his chest. You had originally planned to kill him quickly and leave, but an overwhelming urge to make him pay came over you. It took all of your strength to pry his ribs open enough to gain access to his heart. You couldn’t hear his sputtering anymore. He was already dead, but that didn’t matter. You crudely cut out his heart and held it in your hands. You considered biting into it for a brief moment before settling on squeezing it, blood spurting from its severed chambers. It felt like a baptism. 

You didn’t know how long you had sat there, appreciating at your work. You waited for some form of terror to set in, but it never did. You felt comfortable, and for once, finally safe.

You did not know what your plan was when you finally exited the house. The silver BMW was waiting for you in the driveway, and for some reason you knew that you had expected it to be sitting there. Hannibal quickly got out of the driver’s seat at the sight of you, his black slacks and red sweater covered by a clear plastic suit.

You felt the overwhelming urge to kiss him. You ran towards him, jumping into the arms that opened for you and running your blood-soaked hands through his hair. His lips met yours, his tongue slowly running along your lower lip as a request for better access. You happily agreed, moaning slightly into the kiss. He pulled away quicker than you wanted, releasing you and looking you over with a smile.

You entered the house together, and Hannibal clicked his tongue at you. 

“You left quite a mess for me to clean up,” he remarked, and you nodded as you sat back down in the puddle of blood that had formed. You both remained still for a few minutes, staring into each other’s eyes. You couldn’t help your adoration. 

“I knew that you would be waiting for me,” you breathed. “I don’t know how, but I knew that when I walked out you would be there. How many?”

“There’s no one else like you, my love.”

“No,” you pressed on, but indulged in the warmth that you felt spread in your heart. “How many people have you killed?”

“I have lost track,” Hannibal confessed as he knelt down next to you. His steady hands pushed your hair out of your face so that he could plant another kiss on your lips. He pulled away and picked up the heart that you had discarded on the floor. He regarded it for a moment before placing it back down. “A shame he wasn’t in better shape. I could have made a wonderful Mediterranean heart stew for you.”

“You eat them?” He regarded your expression carefully before nodding. Your smile only grew as you reached out to stroke his face. “The next one, then.”

“The next one?” He could barely hide the excitement in his voice, and you nodded.

“There are many more abusers out there, Hannibal. And not all of them mine. I feel as though the all deserve a similar fate.”

“And the rude,” Hannibal pressed.

“The abusers and the rude,” you agreed. You couldn’t deny that there was something exhilarating as you had pried open his chest. He wasn’t even your abuser in that moment, he was just a body, a body that only deserved to be used like the meat that it was. Hannibal broke your reverie by running his hands through your hair and examining the blood that came away and covered his gloves.

“You should try and clean yourself,” he mused. “It will be impossible to return to the hotel unnoticed if you remain covered in blood.”

“What are you going to do, make me?” You teased him as you returned to your feet. He stood up as well and wrapped his arms around your waist. 

“Yes I will,” he growled in your ear. “My princess.” You involuntarily moaned before stepping back from him. “I’ll clean up your mess while you go clean yourself, _baby girl_.” The amusement in his voice was apparent. 

“Okay _daddy,”_ you purred as you skipped off to find the bathroom. Your heart swelled at the small groan you heard from behind you. 


End file.
